Of Melancholic Kisses
by Black Tangled Heart
Summary: Even in lockdown, she wants to kiss him . . .


Of Melancholic Kisses  
  
© 2004 Black Tangled Heart  
  
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Sofia Coppola the brilliant, including my sincerest apologies.   
  
Dedication: To Kara and Celyn, my pixies.   
  
--  
  
Somewhere behind the sweet gloss and the foulness left lingering from other mouths, she can still taste that first kiss. It wasn't her first kiss, no. Not her first ever kiss, that awkward jumble when you don't know what to do with your hands or your tongue. No, she can still taste the first kiss she shared with him.   
  
She can smell his skin; feel the fabric of his shirt bunched in her small hands. She can still taste the salt and weed and schnapps everywhere inside his mouth. She still recalls the aggression of that kiss. The searing, messy, sky-high grab the stars shake the moon feeling that coursed through her. She doesn't remember what was said, but she knows the contours of his face even in the dark. She didn't smoke for hours afterward, to still savour the taste. And even after an uncountable amount of kisses and cigarettes and booze nights, she still tastes and feels and wants that kiss.   
  
Now his name is looped across her underwear. Blue lace and purple cotton are stained with marker. Her bras, too. Shell pink and celadon and orange. Trip. Trip. Trip.   
  
The night passes in a blur, like a stopped clock suddenly starting again. Frenzied, disjointed. The tiara on her golden hair, between her tear-slicked lips. The dress flowing down around her legs, then bunched about her hips. Then twisted round and smeared with dirt.   
  
Now her white dress is grass stained and the smell of her burned records permeates the whole house.His name is crossed out on her panties. Her bras. Black streaks across mauve and azure. Like mascara running down a shimmering rainbow-splashed cheek. It's gone from all the pages of her notebooks. The same ballpoint pen that spawned the name now swipes it out. Trip. Trip. Trip.   
  
And she wants that kiss.   
  
Even in lockdown, without textbooks or crowded halls, she wants to kiss him. When she's flipping through the glossy magazines and catalogs, she dreams of him. Of kisses beneath a waterfall. Of kisses in a wet and gnarled jungle. Because the danger was exhilarating. And she'd made the tension between them almost unbearable, crackling and hissing before she set off fireworks by slamming her mouth against his.   
  
None of it's ever mattered before Trip. Every rough hand and chapped mouth and hard cock is nothing. The world has narrowed ever more, peripheral vision fading to black. His face is all she sees. His voice resounds inside her head. All she wants is him and it's so consuming she feels choked up. She presses her face against her window, and knows he's out there beyond her room. But he'll never be beyond her mind.   
  
He's a creep. She scrawls it out across paper. Creep. Creep. Creep. But maybe that's what drew her to him, like a flame immolates a moth. He's so different from the other boys she's normally messed around with. So reckless; unpredictable. Like her.   
  
If only he'd given her a goddamn kiss goodbye. It was the least he could have done, rather than pushing her lovely face from the crook of his arm and leaving her to wake up alone, still smelling of nicotine and fucking schnapps.   
  
She twirls her homecoming tiara around her fingers. She wants to burn it like her mother did her records. Watch it smoulder like Aerosmith or land in the rubbish bin like Kiss. It's a reminder of all that once was, like a shower of glitter falling and dying, losing its shimmer. Lacy swirls of nothingness in her eyes.   
  
She can hear the creak of Bonnie's swinging rope downstairs. The tap running as Therese fills a glass with water and her palm with pills. The hum of the oven as it is festooned with clouds of gas, to turn Mary's breath noxious. She gets up from her curled position. Stretches, feeling the crack along her spine. She trots clandestinely down the stairs. She's hugged and kissed and cried with her sisters. She knows she'll see them soon. She'll see Cecelia. And she'll watch Trip move through his life in a haze of vodka and cocaine and memories of schnapps and lipstick and homecoming and coming.   
  
She touches her fingertips against her lips. And when she opens the door she runs down the street, screaming his name into the dark. Runs past the boys who want to take her away. Runs past the garage where the car is waiting. Runs past all her judgment and promises to her sisters.   
  
Runs to his house and bangs on the door, yelling and crying until her throat is raw. Screams until the door swings open; until she sees his sleepy eyes and smells his sweat. Hurtles into his arms and kisses him until blood slips down her chin. Kisses him until they're both screaming with anger and lust. Peels off her clothes. Rips open his. They stumble onto the lawn, with dewy grass like the football field. They tangle their limbs together.   
  
His fingers through her hair. Her nails cutting bright streaks into his bare chest. Kisses, kisses, kisses. A messy trail of kisses down the smooth slope of her throat. A circle of kisses on each of her milk-white thighs. A shower of kisses between them.  
  
When he speaks she won't remember it. She can't. All she can do is feel. Because he makes her bleed and cry and scream and sigh. Because it is her last chance to feel. Last chance to be. They fuck until they're too sore to move, too sated. But she moves, puts on her torn top and trousers. Leaves him lying on the grass like he did her.   
  
Comes home and revs up the engine.   
  
She can still taste his kiss when she tastes the monoxide.   
  
-- 


End file.
